


Old Wounds

by Funkingrunkles



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Other, Scars, Self harm very brief mention, portal ford, scarred ford, self harm tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26842846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funkingrunkles/pseuds/Funkingrunkles
Summary: While you bake with Stanford, you both make a startling discovery about each other.
Relationships: Ford Pines/Reader, Stanford "Ford" Pines/reader, Stanford Pines/ungendered reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 58





	Old Wounds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HunkleJunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HunkleJunk/gifts).



> Hi all! HunkleJunk sent me a cool/soft prompt for a Ford/reader, so here it is

You know your Ford is a characteristically soft boy, but you didn't know just  _ how _ soft until you walk into the shack and follow the sound of him singing something in…is that Italian? All while kneading bread dough. His face brightens when he sees you, just like it always does. Even after months of seeing him, it still makes your heart flutter. There’s flour all over the cuffs of his red sweater and a little bit on his cheek, too.

“Hello. I didn't know you were coming over,” he says softly.

You shrug. “I tried texting you.”

His nose wrinkles and his eyes go vacant while he stares into the middle distance, thinking. “You know, I'm not sure I can remember where I put the thing.”

You laugh and wrap your arms around him from behind. “How typical.” From over his shoulder you can see his hands working the dough in repetitive motions. “What mad science are you up to today, Dr. Pines?” 

“Baking,” he says. “And it's really more chemistry than anything.”

“Chemistry is a science. I'm closest without going over.”

He chuckles. “I'm not sure  _ The Price Is Right  _ rules apply, dear.”

“Well, what are you chemistry-ing, then?”

He shakes his head at the non-word, just like you knew he would. “These are rosemary bread rolls. Mabel sent me the recipe weeks ago and I've been meaning to make them. I think perhaps they’ll be sturdy enough that I could overnight her a few.”

“Better send enough for Dipper. Stan told me the other day that he’s entering that teen boy ‘eating everything in sight at all times’ phase.”

“Mm, good point.”

You stand silently behind him as he continues to work the dough. Eventually you get tired of standing on your tip-toes and settle for resting your head on his back instead. The steady beat of his heart combined with the generally cozy atmosphere of the kitchen feels like something out of a Martha Stewart magazine. Or a bad romance novel, maybe. 

When he begins to move away from the counter, you take the hint and sit at the table instead. He puts the dough in a bowl, wets down a thin cloth, and lays it over the top of the dough. Only when he pushes it against the back of the counter do you realize that there’s another just like it. That one he brings to the table, along with the bucket of flour and a roll of parchment.

“Would you like to help?”

You eye the mound of dough. “Sure.” You're not sure what he wants help with, but you’ll never turn down an opportunity to participate in his crimes against ‘Stan’s’ kitchen. It's terrible, you know this, but watching them bicker is better than television. 

He places a sheet of parchment in front of you, then himself. He sprinkles them with a dusting of flour, then plops the dough down right on his own sheet. With a sharp knife, he sections off small chunks and puts them back in the bowl until there are only two left—one for him, and one for you. 

“Alright, the recipe was a bit vague on how exactly to roll these. Mabel almost certainly picked them for the fancy knot though, and I don't intend to let her down.”

“Valiant,” you nod.

You follow along as he rolls the dough out into a long snake. It's a little difficult for both of you, because it keeps wanting to snap back to its original shape. The dough wants to remain formless. Eventually you both get it to the desired length, then Ford picks it up carefully by the ends. His tongue sticks out the corner of his mouth in concentration as he folds the dough over on itself in a single knot, presses the ends together underneath, and quickly places it on the baking sheet to his right. Instead of just sticking his pinkies out while doing this delicate task, he has both his fifth and sixth fingers held out. In a word, it’s adorable. Mabel would be so proud.

You both move quicker as you get the hang of it, and soon you've reached the bottom of the bowl. He lays the cloth over the baking sheet, giving them the appearance of ghostly bread rolls, and sets them back with the second bowl.

“They have to rise again for ten minutes.”

“That's enough for a quick game of Rummy.” You raise your eyebrows with the statement, turning it into a question.

He flashes just the smallest grin at you--the most you ever see of his teeth. “I'll get the cards.” He pats his floury hands into a dish rag, then darts out of the room. 

Once he’s gone, you get up and turn on the faucet. You hiss at the temperature when you put your hand under the tap—the Shack gets its water from a well, and it's just shy of  _ freezing _ cold. You check over your shoulder to make sure Ford hasn't come back yet, then tug your sleeves up and pump soap into your hand. The water hasn't had time to get warm, really, but you're not going to wait around for it.

As soon as you shut off the water, you Ford hiss a breath in through his teeth. Oh no. 

“Who did this?” He’s already behind you, hands hovering near your forearms. Five perfectly round, shiny scars are staring back up at you both.

With a grimace, you pull the sleeves back down. They're going to be wet for quite a while now, but it's worth it. “Ford, it’s nothing. Just leave it.”

His hands withdraw quickly. You turn to face him and find him completely devoid of color, mouth pressed in a firm line. This is the look, the clamming up, that leads to people thinking he's just a cold fish. You know better.

Instantly you soften, taking a step toward him and letting your hand linger on his arm. “I just mean it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Right,” he breathes.

He goes back to the table and sits down to shuffle the cards. You wait a moment, then follow. He deals your hand and his, then sets out the rest of the cards accordingly. You play two turns each in complete silence, then Ford suddenly puts his cards down. 

Your heart jumps into your throat, assuming he’s about to force the scar conversation. Instead, he simply pulls up the sleeves of his own sweater to his elbows, then picks his hand up and plays his turn.

You’re too stunned to care about the game anymore. Your long sleeves are a specific choice, since scars like yours draw attention in a place like Gravity Falls, but it never occurred to you that Stanford’s were the same. His arms...they're  _ covered _ . The skin around his wrists is discolored, there are little white scars just all over his arms, and on the inside of the right one is a deep gash. It looks like it needed stitches, but never got them. 

You clear your throat and sidle up closer to him.

“If you're just trying to see my hand, it won't work.”

You jab him in the ribs with your elbow, eliciting a giggle that you feel is worth more than any other earthly treasure. He's silent while you sit beside him to examine the old wounds. You bring a hand slowly to his right arm, giving him ample opportunity to stop you, then graze your finger across the gash. It’s deeper than it looks.

“I didn't mean to be rude,” he says gently. “I feel terrible for having never noticed. I just… Well, I thought I'd let you know you aren't alone.”

You turn toward him and catch his chin in your fingers, bringing him in for a kiss that leaves you a little dizzy. This soft, sentimental old man is going to be the end of you. 

Without further warning, you roll up your sleeves again. He adjusts his glasses (you notice that his cheeks are flushed now—even at your age you've still got the moves) and examines them like he examines everything else; thoughtfully and thoroughly. He’s probably turned your arms over ten times each before he clears his throat to speak.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You shrug. “It's old news. Old stories. I only cover them up because I just  _ hate _ the pity people try to give me. It's like they think that just because they can see my body, they deserve to know it's story. It's exhausting.”

Still looking down at your arms, Ford lets out a little hum. “I understand. I was...embarrassed, for a long time. I didn't want people thinking I can't take care of myself. But Stanley…” his hand finds its way to his forehead, covering his eyes. “He’s so damn guilt-ridden that sometimes, he just can't stand to look at them. He never asked, but I try to be considerate and cover them.”

The words “I’m sorry” bubble up your throat and get stuck behind your lips—Ford doesn't need your pity any more than you need his. You aren't a victim, you aren't an open invitation to pity and sorrow. You're a monument to your own life and all its struggles. Some people have tattoos or piercings or an immaculate slate. You happen to have scars, and that’s just alright.

Instead, you nod toward your arms. “I'll tell you the story behind any one of them.”

He thoughtfully considers his options, then points to the most obvious of them: the burns.

“Cigarettes. Hurt like a sonofabitch for years, but not anymore.”

He holds an arm out to you. “Quid pro quo,” he says.

You put your fingers on his wrists. They're warm underneath your cool touch.

“Hm. Well, you know what happened two summers ago—”

“Never mind all that.”

He snickers. “Exactly. These were Bill.”

You've watched Ford struggle to come to grips with his past and present for a long time, longer than the two of you have been together. You're not sure you've ever seen him say Bill's name without cringing or tearing up, until now. Now, he looks at his arms solemnly and resolutely.

“Your turn,” you say softly.

So you sit at the table and tell each other short stories, some funny and some sad and some just too old to remember properly. He runs his finger over the scars you gave yourself inside your left forearm, brushing over them like a hundred speed bumps. You trace the teeth marks of a monster you've never heard of, and will never see in this dimension. You tell him about that one time you got into a fight with a punk who  _ started it, I swear _ and ended up with a Swiss Army knife in your ribs. It didn't go deep enough to hurt anything, but boy did you make sure that jerk ended up in the ER right alongside you. He parts his hair at the side of his scalp and shows you the halo of a scar that runs around his whole skull—and there's a metal plate underneath.

When the next batch of rolls are ready to be knotted, you both push your sleeves up to your elbows without a second thought. No pity, no secrets—just laughter and time with the best friend you could ask for.


End file.
